


Angels Landing

by anotherdestielshipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Anonymity, Bartender - Freeform, Boxer!Dean, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Religious!Cas, Slow Build, really gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdestielshipper/pseuds/anotherdestielshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up in an ultra-religious family with two over-bearing bible-thumping brothers, Castiel is convinced that he will be intellectually religious rather than let them dictate his beliefs. But what starts off as a journey to discover himself at St. Lawrence University ends with his curiosity breaking the strongholds of his inhibitions and Castiel makes the first friends of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever.

1

 

Castiel walked into the bathroom. The back of the door sported a long, body length mirror. He looked at himself as he pulled off his clothes before setting on the shower. As the steam began to settle into the corners of the glass, he looked at his body, not particularly enjoying his physique. He felt too thin—while others would describe him as lean—and saw himself as gawky and scrawny. A dark coat of hair rose up his legs and folded into an even darker one in-between them while a single line of hair rose up to his belly button. While his acquaintances would see him as an average height, taut-bodied guy, he glanced at his body once more and cursed God for having made him so… average. He looked at the fading olive tone to his skin overtaken by the paleness that came with staying indoors at all costs spread over all five feet and eleven inches of him, and a coat of dark brown, almost black, hair covered sporadic places of his body. Making him self-conscious to take his clothes off or even show a little skin, which is why he often sported his trench coat like battle armor.

As he walked to class, the sun burned deeply on his coat-clad shoulders.  

The town, Lawrence, was relatively calm. Most of the people that lived there were university students who, like him, thought the room and boarding prices for university were ridiculous, and got apartments. Happily, he had settled in a week before classes, with the help of his older brother Gabriel but hadn’t given himself the chance to give the town an up and down. So as he walked to class on the 28th of August, he decided that he would go for a stroll in the evening.

 

Castiel was happy that his brothers, many years ago, had been trained and had trained him in combat. Walking out of class and around the crowded town, he reminded himself that this wasn’t Angels Landing, and that people who didn’t know him would leave him alone, that no one knew him in this town. It was Gabriel, his favorite and most annoying brother, who had gifted him a long blade—“called an ‘Angel Blade’ by experts Cassie-boo, you gotta appreciate my great taste”—to contribute to his growing collection of weapons that he kept in his apartment. The black tinted butterfly knife that he carried now strapped to his belt and concealed with the length of his shirt. After the incident the spring before he left Angels Landing, he had carried and collected knives of all variations, obsessed with being able to take care of himself. His eldest brother, Lucian—born Lucifer but had a legal name change before becoming a pastor—had given him a kit, his first, of daggers and throwing knives. He duplicated that one after a few years and now had a collection of five of those, totaling to almost forty small daggers, scattered strategically around his new home. Knowing that living by himself was more of a risk than living with his pious brothers, Castiel considered himself armed everywhere he went. He knew that it was his nerdy style—“Cassie, you look like an accountant for God’s sake! You gotta loosen up to get laid in college!” he could remember Gabriel exclaiming a week ago and his wardrobe—and probably the hair that made him look defenseless, or at least that’s what it was in Angels Landing. That wouldn’t be the case here.  

 The end of the summer seemed to affect everyone that was between the age span of eighteen and twenty-three because young people crowded the benches in the park even at nine that night and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere to sit and think. Which is exactly how, as he steers away from the park and the crowds of people, he walks unknowingly into a non-threatening looking bar and sits down. His trench coat hung heavily at his shoulders but he felt safe from the people outside while he was in it, regardless of how warm the night was outside. He knew that without it, he wouldn’t have been able to leave his house. It would obviously take some time for him to get used to the feel of this town. This wasn’t his hometown, where the priest at the largest church would leave the side door unlocked for him during the weekdays so that he could go in and write in the House of God but it would do. He would make it his new home… he’d do anything to stay away from Lucian and Michel.

            As he thinks about Angels Landing, he notices the bartender in front of him, thankful that the man hasn’t yet noticed his presence because Castiel got lost looking at the contours of his body under the light gray t-shirt he wore. The man had thin but muscled hips and with his tight shirt clinging to him religiously, Castiel could see the dip and curve of the bartender’s spine in his lower back and the muscles that spread over his shoulder-blades and down his arms. His arms were thick and tattooed down to the shoulders and Castiel found himself staring open-mouthed at the way the veins popped out of his forearms like tree roots gripping at the life underneath the skin. He swallowed hard, unable to understand why the nape of the bartender’s neck made his mouth go dry and why the short, blondish brown hair above made him want to press his mouth and nose there and inhale all that he had to offer.

Castiel had never been able to understand his _inclinations_ or change them. After his brother Lucian, the bible-thumping pastor, found him in a compromising situation with another boy in the youth group, he was told that those desires were planted in him by Satan, the one who tempts us all into damnation, and repressed them for his own good. It had been a successful five years since that fateful night where Lucian grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him into a cold lake, attempting to cleanse and baptize him anew after his sin. He had refused his sexuality for three years, vowing to become celibate and stoic in his brothers’ house. But now, he realized, that there was nothing holding him back from being happy.  

The way that the bartender, whose back was still to Castiel, swung and ground his hips loosely to the beat of the classic rock buzzing lightly from the speakers, made Castiel remember the beauty that was the male body and he licked his lips. Reflexively, he closed his eyes. _Forgive me Father for I have sinned_ , his voice droned into his mind, trying to erase the ideas he had of those hips and that honey-tinted skin with all of the curves and perfect contours and the _veins_ that just pulsated with life, _I have had sinful thoughts, my Lord, and I plead your forgiveness and understanding my Lord I am not as strong as you._ And without opening his eyes, he began, _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name, Thy kingdom come; They will be done on earth as it is in_ —but the bartender had started singing and his eyes snapped open as he looked up to catch a glimpse of his face, which _needed_ to be as beautiful as his body because Castiel **knew** that if God was one thing, it was a craftsman and an artist and there wasn’t a way in Heaven that that man in front of him could be anything but breathtakingly beautiful.

But before he could catch that wanted glimpse, a quirky woman with long-burgundy red hair had her arms around the bartender’s neck. She sang into the crook of his neck with a wide smile on her face, “me and you! And you and me! No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be!” and as the bartender tightened his grip on her waist, he sang back to her, “the only one for me is you, and you for me, so happy together!” She ended the song in a fit of giggles and put her hands at the side of his head, bringing it down to place a kiss on his forehead. “Take care of yourself tonight, princess, okay? Don’t want to be nursing no black eyes on that pretty face.” She pulled the apron from his hips and tied it around hers as he left, his head shaking as he laughed at whatever it was she said. Castiel didn’t notice he was staring at her until she shook her hand in front of his face, a grin stretching over her pale and beautiful complexion.

“Hey man, you okay? Need me to call you a cab?” She didn’t look so much concerned as curious and he shook himself out of his trance, trying to forget the bartender and how now he’d be forced to talk to his _girlfriend_ if he didn’t leave.

“No, I…um… I just got here,” he looked down at his clasped hands on the bar.

“Well, then, you’re in luck because I can make a mean drink and I’m much more conversational than that pretty boy that just left,” she picked up the rag that the guy had left and threw it somewhere underneath the table. “I’m Charlie, by the way,” she put a shot glass in front of her and poured a gold liquid into it, “and the first shot is free if you’re talkative.”

Besides the small bouts of wine he’d had in his life, Castiel never drank, so when this friendly redhead poured the gold liquid into the small glass, he took it and swallowed it whole before choking on the bitter burning taste of it. He managed to hold it down without gagging at the burning sensation down his entire esophagus and looked up teary-eyed, glad that it was Charlie and not Charlie’s boyfriend that had just witnessed this. She looked at him, a smirk on her face, and another shot glass with the gold liquid in it. “First time, huh? Why didn’t you tell me? Let’s take one together to celebrate!” She pushed it in front of him and poured one for herself. “On the count of three, you down this bitch down just like the first and you’ll forget how much it hurts, deal?”

Castiel dried his eyes and took the glass with a shaky hand. Why he didn’t just tell her no, he didn’t know, he just knew that if this second one would get rid of the sensation that his throat was being ripped open with a knife, he will force it down no matter what. And before he knew it, Charlie screamed “three!” and his throat was being invaded with the liquor again, and not at all smoothing the sensation there. He swallowed saliva a few times before being able to speak again.

“I’m,” he coughed and choked a bit again, “Castiel, by the way,” he coughed again, fighting the feeling of wanting to throw up, “I’ve never taken one of those.”

She pushed a glass of another amber liquid at him, this one with foam on top and chuckled when he looked at it reluctantly and with disgust, as if she was asking him to chug the entire thing, “it’s beer, dude, nothing bad or as strong.” She poured whatever she found for him, which was a dark “Brooklyn Lager” that her boss was fond of. She had pegged him to be a dark beer fan and was relieved when he took the first sip and relaxed with the glass, sipping a few more times before putting it down.

“Charlie, this is good,” he tried to smile to ease the worry on her face but failed. She looked at him like he was a puppy she just kicked. “I’m sorry, I’ve never…” he drifted off, knowing how stupid he would sound admitting to her that he had never drank anything before in his life.

“No, bro, it’s cool. The shots are on the house, I shouldn’t have assumed you were here to relax a bit after your first day teaching,” she turned around to the radio and clicked a few buttons until he heard the music change to what sounded like the 4 Non Blondes. He looked around the bar, for a Thursday night, he thought it would be a bit more crowded. The bar was dark, yet illuminated by strings of light hanging from the ceiling and around some walls, which were painted a dark green and accompanied by dark chestnut colored tables and chairs around the long room. The floor was also wooden and the lights’ reflection shone on it.

“No, it’s alright, I am just not much of a drinker,” he decides to say. She pulls up a stool on her side of the long table and looks at him. “But yes, I left my apartment to find a some solace after my first day of classes.”

“I knew I had to be right about something. So what was it? Was it a bunch of snot-nosed freshmen? Or did you have to teach unwilling seniors?”

Castiel was taken aback with her suggestion that he would be a teacher. He was sure he looked like nothing short of a seventeen year old. He could never be taken for a teacher, much less a college professor. This girl must need glasses. He saw the curiosity creep over her face, as he looked confused and then decided to smile at her.

“No,” he forced a chuckle, “I am not a professor. I am a… it’s my first semester at Lawrence U.”

The happiness erased from her face and was replaced by fear. She had already been reprimanded once for selling alcohol to minors when Dorothy, the ridiculously hot girl in taking the Intro to Technology class that she was a TA in, walked into the bar wanting to get “smashed” and god help her if she didn’t get right up smashed onto Charlie’s lap. Castiel saw it and his expression changed immediately.           

“Cas…tiel… you wouldn’t happen to be underage, hmm?” She knew Crowley would flip a shit if he found out the guy she was taking shots with was under 21, but she had to ask.

Suddenly he remembered how illegal that was and lying to her didn’t seem like an option for him because she was so friendly, and because she’s the first person he’s talked to in this town. He opts for not lying and smiling shyly as he slides, from his wallet, two photo I.D.s to Charlie. One was his own, the other was the one he had stolen from his half-brother at finding he had smuggled a large quantity of weed into his brother Lucian’s house. Jimmy, his half-brother, was older than him by two years, but he was definitely smaller than Castiel in terms of height and strength, and so Castiel had acted on anger and kicked him out of the house, taken his wallet and all the money he had in there, and delivering the bag of weed to Lucian, who was an expert in punishments in the name of God and obedience. The I.D. he had kept for no specific reason and he was happy to be able to show both of them to Charlie, who eyed them suspiciously.

“I have an older half-brother that looks almost identical to me and this is his identification. We can say that I am Jimmy Novak and that I am legal enough to drink alcohol. I won’t say a thing if you don’t say a thing.”

She pushed them both back to him silently and smiled at him, realizing that Jimmy/Castiel was going to be her friend, no matter how awkward he was after _two_ whiskey shots.

 

His step wavered a little when he got up, after two more of that Brooklyn stuff that Charlie shot him up with. Charlie was hilarious. They’d discussed The Lord of the Rings zealously, and he chuckled to himself at the memory of Lucian and Michel, his eldest brothers, discussing passages of the bible in the same manner. When he dared to mention his love for all literature science fiction but his ignorance for most of them—he didn’t think he should tell her the reason was his over-bearing religious older brothers—her eyes grew wide and she blurted out to him, “dude! You HAVE to have seen the complete and utter classic, right? The holy trinity of sci-fi? You’ve GOT TO, man there are no excuses.”

He stuttered, trying to remember if there _was_ a holy trinity of sci-fi. Maybe she meant Frankenstein? He definitely had read that. “Um... Charlie… what is that?” He said through downcast eyes.

She stood up from her stool. “Star Wars? The original Star Wars. The EPITOME of sci-fi and all that is geek in this modern day. You have seen that, right?”

He swallowed hard. He was never allowed to watch movies in his house, much less the supposed blasphemy that was science fiction in the house of two Servants of God. No, he had to conform to the literature of his local library, which didn’t have much literary heresy to begin with. He was happy enough to escape into the winding worlds of Stephen King with his supernatural and horror themes and to delve into the worlds of Kurt Vonnegut and Philip K. Dick and H. G. Wells and that one Octavia Butler collection that the attractive librarian had given to him on his birthday. Movies were completely out of the question. A deep scarlet blush covered his cheeks as he looked at Charlie and shook his head; ashamed he wasn’t as cool as she was. How could he ever expect to have friends if he was so weird?

She noticed his discomfort and blush and smiled lightly, putting her hand on his wrist, “Dude! You know what this means? It means we can have a marathon!” Her eyes were wide in excitement, like she had always wanted to meet someone who she could introduce into Star Wars. “Dean and I have one every few months and I’ll set shit up with him so we can include you and we’ll try out very hardest not to quote the movies so you can watch!”

She pulled her hand away from Castiel. She had a habit of being too nice to people who weren’t all that nice back and wondered if maybe this guy was like that. She hoped not, because he seemed like one of the rare cool people that went to Lawrence U.

“I would be honored but I would not want to discomfort you and Dean,” he tried not to flinch at the name of the guy who he had been eyeing, especially after knowing his girlfriend was the nicest person he had met in his life. “But I must really start going,” _because I know that if you start talking about how perfect your boyfriend is, I might explode,_ he refrained from saying. He smiled at her and paid his tab, which was cheap considering how much he had drank. He would like to come back. She gave him a high-five, and shouted after him as he stumbled out of the bar, “You just wait Cas! We’ll have you quoting Star Wars in no time!”

 

Before leaving, Castiel had glanced at the time, it was slightly past midnight, and he expected that his three-block walk home would be uneventful and safe. But he hadn’t counted on not knowing which way he had come from his apartment building, if he had come into the bar from the right or the left, or if he had walked through the park, and he laughed at himself and at his drunkenness because it was all just so funny that he would end up lost on the first night out. He’d go back to the bar tomorrow and do the “boiler” thing again. He started up to his left and walked up the street, stopping only when out of an alley came a well-built man. He had a towel slung over the back of his neck, his short hair glistening wet, and wore shorts that showed off his muscular bow-legs. Following the man as he walked in front of him, Castiel realized he recognized the curves of those arms—for how could he ever forget those heavenly guns? —and chuckled lowly. Surprised, he started walking again, sobered up by the opportunity of being able to casually follow this guy.

He walked like he was marking each step claim the earth as his and Castiel was sobered up in the ease of Dean’s step and the steady muscles that seemed like they were holding the weight of the world. Castiel laughed at himself at that assumption, he knew nothing of this guy; he should shut his mind up. Curiosity got the best of Castiel and he let his gazed drift up the man’s bowlegs. The loose mesh shorts Dean wore clung to his hips desperately as he walked, his shirt gripping the flesh of his lower back, and Castiel couldn’t help but think that if he was that shirt, he would also be clinging to that skin for dear life. As he thought this, he heard Lucian shout in his head: _Ten Hail Marys for your lack of prudence and twenty Our Fathers for your outright disrespect and disgusting inclinations Castiel!_

But the man’s ass was too distracting. The shorts made his ass protrude significantly and Castiel was sure he’d be able to bounce a quarter right off that cheek. He cursed himself for his sinful thoughts and vowed another ten Hail Marys once he got home but caught and held his breath as the man—Dean—stopped in front of a shiny, black sports car. By the look of it, Castiel figured it must be old, because cars with those edges and curves were not made as beautiful as this one. Of course this perfectly contoured man would have a perfectly contoured car. He kept walking, glancing back slightly to see if Dean would turn his head to look at him, and so that Castiel could finally see his face, but Dean walked fast to the driver’s side of the car and was in it without one look in Castiel’s direction.

As he walked, more giddy and unhappy with himself, he could hear the roar and purr of the car and wondered how he had never been interested in cars until tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? 
> 
> PS: The chapter was named for the Aerosmith song "Angel".


	2. Singer's Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited since it's first posted date.

2

 

_“Hey, hey, hey! Love is like a bomb baby c’mon get it on…”_

            The song started and he began shuffling his feet. The light and practiced scuffle was the perfect way for him to center himself. As the guitar riffs broke the silence of the gym around him, he picked up the shuffling of his feet until he was bouncing from one foot to the other, picking his arms up to shield his face and to concentrate on moving at _his_ pace and not the song’s. As the chorus approached, he clicked his first jab into the bag, singing along in this head, “ _Pour some sugar on me!”_ and circling the bag with anger on his face. His shuffle was impeccable, and as he cross-punched the bag, he couldn’t help but sing in between breaths, _“I’m hot, sticky sweet! From my head to my feet yeah!”_

            As the song continued, he pulled away from the bag slightly to tighten his abdominal muscles and land his first roundhouse kick on the upper part of it. He continued to shuffle his feet expertly and plant strategic punches and kicks on the bag until the song ended. It is then that he steadies the swinging bag against his body and prepares to start again. From behind him, he could hear footsteps, “Hey! Stop making out with my bag!” and Bobby Singer’s voice was drowned by the beginning of one of his favorite songs to fight to, Metallica’s “Master of Puppets”. By then, sweat started to coat the top of his forehead, the sides of his face, and the back of his neck. He felt the adrenaline begin to pump through his veins. “Dedicated to! How I’m killing you!” he sang out as he swung his entire body opposite to the bag and felt the back of his leg and foot connect to the bag. He shadow boxed, and ducked, expecting the attacker to try to hit his upper body, and turned quickly into the bag, digging his right knee three times into its center before following it with a combo of hooks and upper-cuts, all to the beat of the song.

            He pulled away quickly, shuffling his feet and balancing again on his toes as the song relaxed into a slow guitar and drum combination. Catching his breath and circling the bag, he landed small touch punches in three combinations and every six or so would give the bag a front kick, meeting its swing back to place with a cross-body punch. The guitar became heavier and he moved faster into the bag, pushing his weight through the bones and muscles in his arms and thighs, feeling his shoulders tense with how good this was feeling. With the flawless guitar solo, he attacked the bag with his entire body, spewing the fire of his frustrations and angers of the past day with his breath, making sure that his knuckles would feel the bag even through the wraps they were under. The tops of his feet were red and raw as he roundhouse kicked the bag nonstop, hoping to completely unhinge it from the support that Bobby had it in. And as the song faded into laughter, he kicked with all his might at the center of it, successfully unhinging it and letting it land with a loud _FLAP!_ on the floor.

            But he didn’t give himself time to pick it up, the guitar riff of “Ride the Lightning” began and he, continuously shuffling his feet, grabbed the speed bag and had his way at it for the remainder of the song, careful to watch his breath control and his hand-eye coordination without losing concentration no matter how hard Bobby’s bitchface bore into the side of his face for the remainder of the song. Once the song finished, Bobby held a remote in his hand and kept the stereo quiet. He threw a dry towel into Dean’s face.

            “Hey ya idjit pick up my damn bag before I shove it right up where the sun don’ shine!”

            Dean, however, still shuffled his feet as he dried his face with the towel. His breath control was almost perfect, he knew, and smiled at Bobby without realizing that he was doing that.

            Bobby jammed a finger into his chest; “I said clean it up boy! I’m no body’s maid ‘round here, no matter how good of a fighter they are,” and then left, keeping the music remote with him.

Dean swore and immediately started his strength-training routine, making sure to do doubles today for his upcoming fights. After working meticulously on his thigh and calf muscles, he ground his feet into the floor, took a deep breath and picked up the two hundred pound punching bag he had unhinged. From his loft office, Bobby pressed the play button for Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, and stood on the balcony to watch Dean attempt to hold the bag up and down from his chest to on top of his head. When he had done about ten of those, struggling to maintain his balance as he sat in a horse-stance, he grabbed the bag and hung it where Bobby wanted it hung and gave his body a loose shake. As his trainer and uncle, Bobby knew how hard Dean struggled to work his body into warrior mode and how much music helped him get in the zone. He clicked on a good song for Dean to stretch to and retreated back into his office as he heard over the music how Dean sang along to all the lyrics of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man”.

           

 

            Dean always worked out before his classes and between his shifts at other jobs. He had recently taken a day job to teach newcomers how to box, which gave him enough income to drop the job at the shitty deli store that he was working it at that time, and gave him more time to roughen up his muscles and tone his body into a kick boxer’s body. Once lithe and rather too pretty, he now sported a herculean body—according to his best friend Charlie—and a taut everything.

After John Winchester’s death, Dean had to take care of his brother and make sure that he was safe. When they were younger and John would disappear for days, leaving the two brothers in their small one bedroom apartment with barely anything to eat, it was Dean who managed to feed his brother and still protect him.

When Dean turned sixteen, his father had given him the keys to the Impala and driven away in a rusty pick up truck. By then Dean had learned to make his living hustling other guys in gambling games and by being the winner in the street fights that were arranged for him. The only thing the Impala did was give him a way to take Sammy to Uncle Bobby’s and leave him for a night while he returned in the morning sporting new bruises and a few extra hundred bucks in cash. But when Sammy was old enough, he went to the fights with his brother, making sure that the money was paid up and that someone could drive while the other rested. Sam and Dean were a team by the time Dean was eighteen and Sammy fourteen. They had taken care of each other’s bloody knuckles since before they lost their virginities—and that was saying something for Dean—so sometimes Dean missed his brother but he knew the baby genius was in Stanford, studying the great laws of this country. Dean lived for that. The boy genius and his street fightin’ big brother. Dean used the money saved up from working as a bartender to send over to his kid brother. He could never rid himself of the fear that Sammy might go hungry or cold one day. It was the reason he fought. He knew that with this championship coming up, he had a chance to win and go big. Then and only then would he be comfortable sleeping at night without worrying if Sammy had enough to eat or wear.

He would never make the mistake that John made. Everyone had their vices, but only idiots let it kill them. He liked to fight and he fought with passion. He would never let his fights end in the death. John Winchester showed him how awful a life as a fighter could end. A disfigured face and a cracked-skull later, Sam and Dean had identified the body as their father’s and took his vintage Colt to the remains of their small apartment. All this had taken place three years ago, a little after Sammy’s high school graduation, and determined the brothers’ departure from Angels Landing, Utah, into their birth town Lawrence, Kansas.

Dean turned his stereo on after assuring that his Baby was well covered under a tarp, humming along to “Summer of ‘69” as he jumped in the shower. It was way after one o’clock in the morning and since he had taken the Friday off in advance from all jobs, he took his time in the shower, making sure that he would wake up Friday morning smelling like Axe suds and not grease and sweat. His mind didn’t drift not once at the guy who had half-walked, half-staggered away from him as he left the gym, and he had no idea that as he slept in his bed, the dark-haired man was on his knees, a rosary pressed to his lips, and praying for forgiveness and guidance from God.

Dean slept comfortably and woke in a puddle of his own sweat, unaware he had had a string of nightmares that made him shout in his sleep. He was too tired to realize it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think?


	3. Never Have I Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Games. Alcohol. Never Have I Ever. And hipbones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited since the first time it was posted. Enjoy!

3

 

            Friday morning came and went, and Castiel felt cleansed after having spent the rest of his alcoholic buzz writing the way that Dean’s muscles moved under his shirt and trying to figure his mind out. He had left Fridays for his elective courses, and was nervous to walk into Creative Writing at ten in the morning. He had written over ten pages in his journal last night, knowing that he would love not being in Angels Landing anymore. His brother wasn’t going to threaten to read his journal and his tiny scrawl wouldn’t be scrutinized by anyone, much less laughed at for being sloppy and disgraceful. He wrote about how he felt, how his father would have never let Michel and Lucian ruin their family the way that they did, how he would be disappointed they didn’t preach the love and acceptance he did in his sermons, and how if he was alive, he would tell Castiel that it was okay, that his inclinations were not of satanic nature but more of human nature. But as he wrote this, Castiel realized that his father didn’t need to tell him those things because he already knew them. He had known them for years.

His father had always told Castiel he knew he would grow to be different. So all it had taken was Gabriel to push a plane ticket into his hand with a letter confirming his spot in St. Lawrence University with three quarters of a scholarship. So that morning, he wrote a short email to Gabriel, telling him if he knew a drink called a “boiler” and anything about old, muscle cars. He was going to be okay, he told himself everyday.

            His writing professor, whose name was ironically Dr. Angel Balthazar asked him to stay after class. He had refused to read his written prompt with the class for their first assignment. Somehow, he hadn’t found his voice then.

            “Listen, mate, we all start here. I hated public speaking, but now look at me. Some of the people here take this class just because they think it’s an easy credit,” Castiel looked even further down at the desk as he said this, thinking that Balthazar meant him, but he continued, “but I saw you walk in and you look like you’d be good here. But you’re still going to have to share your work to get some class credit, mister…”

            “Milton, sir.” He forced his head to look up at Balthazar as he said this.

            “Milton it is. Do me a favor? Look a little less scared next Friday,” he flashed Castiel a smile and a wink and picked up his satchel to leave the class. Castiel hurried after him, dashing into the bathroom to dry-heave inside a stall.

            The class after that was so much easier. It was when he looked up at the board that he realized that he recognized the person at the board and sighed relief.

Charlie Bradbury had written on the board in big capital letters “Religious Allusions in Contemporary Lit” and crossed her arms in front of her as she stared at the class. A few people got up to leave and as they packed their things, she let out a hearty laugh.

“Okay, okay! You caught me! I was just messin’ with ya,” she dragged the eraser over what she had written and quickly wrote “Information Systems and Research” and drew a heart at the end of the name.

“The name’s Charlie, and I’m the TA for this heavenly class. Some of you may or may not know that this is an online class where you have to sit in this room for two hours every week to be able to pass the course. So now you know. When I say your name, please say your major out loud that way I have an idea of what I’m up against this semester.” She began calling names without scanning the class. There was a tablet in her hand where she was, Castiel assumed, typing names and majors down. All around him were simple majors like history and accounting and when he saw her smirk and look up as she said, “Castiel Milton”, he found the courage to respond with his own major and gave her a small smile.

The two hours went relatively easy. Within the first half hour, Castiel saw how intoxicating Charlie was, no one being able to escape her teasing and conversation. _Of course,_ he thought, _of course she would be this great in front of a crowd. No wonder Dean is in love with her. She’s beautiful and smart and so funny._ But his jealousy quickly wipes off when he hears her talking to a stocky Asian guy, he remembers to be named Kevin, about what sounds like ‘hacking’ into something. He made a mental note to ask her what hacking was when he saw her that night in the bar. She walked by him and laid a light punch on his upper arm, accompanying it with, “hey brotha from another motha. You coming by the bar tonight or do you want to do something awesome instead?”

A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Will you not be working tonight?” He had been nervous yet excited at the thought of being able to see Dean again, however briefly.

“Nope! My bitchacho, I reserved the first Friday back to school months ago, Crowley’s having his girlfriend or whoever work the bar since Dean and I both opted out. There is nothing we hate more than crazy college kids trying to pretend they’re already stressed out this early in the semester. And it’s not like Dean really bartends on the weekends, he has another job, so it’ll just be me flying solo tonight unless you can join me.”

Castiel is happy he can make a friend, and he is even happier at the thought of being able to “hang out” with Charlie outside of the bar or school. So he agrees to hang out with her convincing himself that he is _not_ attracted to Dean. I mean, for God’s sake, he’s never even met the guy!

So a few hours and five miles later, he stood outside of a yellow house with dying, wild sunflowers on the lawn and vines climbing up to the front window. The house had one entrance directly in front of him and another just off the side, a yellow motorbike parked next to a car with a blue tarp over it. He walked into the door directly in front of him, wondering if the side door led to the same place but afraid to go there. At his third knock he heard Charlie yell, “I’m GOING CASTIEL GIVE ME A SECOND!” and a door slammed inside before he was greeted by a happy looking Charlie holding an iPod on one hand and a beer in the other. As he walked into the brightly painted house, he could hear from distant speakers, “I’m walking on sunshine! Whoa oh!” and took in the large bookcases on either sides of the walls. There was a huge poster of a woman with what looked like two bagels of hair on her ears, holding a gun, and framed by a banner that said on top REBEL and on the bottom, Princess Leia. He looked at the poster strangely before looking back at Charlie, who had extended her hands out as if presenting her house to him. He smiled. No place had ever looked so cool, cluttered, and homey ever in his entire life. Full of books, an old, large TV that was framed by stacks of DVDs, and posters of a Queen Granger and a landscape with a dwarf-looking thing staring into the sunset he wondered if it was Lord of the Rings themed, and colorfully painted, Castiel relaxed into the feel of the house and took a beer from Charlie.

“Sorry about that brotha, I was saying bye to Dean just as you were knocking,” and with that she went over to the window to show him that Dean was there, folding the tarp he had pulled from the car and getting inside. Castiel recognized the hairline and the nape of his neck, the strong muscles embraced by tattoos, and the sleek, sexy car that he was driving out and away from the house. A knot twisted in the lower parts of his belly. Again, so close to Dean, and not even enough, he still had not been able to see his face. He cursed God for playing such cruel games with him once more and turned to Charlie who was holding a DVD of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone with a piece of paper that said, “drinking to HP 1” and chuckled. As unknown as Dean was to him, he was happy that at least Charlie was the one who made him happy.

Castiel, as Charlie informed him, had the potential to hold his liquor like a pro but would have to practice. Before Harry received his Invisibility Cloak for Christmas, Castiel was slurring his words and Charlie was flushed pink and on the floor, her feet propped near Castiel’s legs on the couch. They had to stop watching the movie to take a hydration break or else Castiel would throw up. She had tried to walk to the kitchen to get him a bottle of water but ended up falling thrice before continuing her attempt dragging herself across the room. This sent Castiel into a bout of giggles so uncontrollable that he ran into the bathroom with the fear of peeing himself on Charlie’s sofa. He relieved himself and looked into the mirror, surprised that his face looked rather pink with the alcohol and much more relaxed than it had for the most part of his life. The digital clock on top of a dark towel read one in the morning and when Castiel staggered back to the couch to ask Charlie if he could crash there, he saw she had already placed a blanket on the coffee table. Next to the blanket and extra pillow, however, was a small bottle of a clear liquid, two shot glasses, sliced limes, and a saltshaker. He looked at Charlie, the question mark practically creased into his forehead.

“Bitchacho, we are testing your limits today. You’re gonna get shitfaced and sleep on this couch because I SAY SO!” She poured the liquid sloppily into the small shot glass before licking salt from her hand and drinking it. She grabbed Castiel’s hand, shimmied some salt out of the shaker in a straight line and held the glass to his lips. Once he had taken the liquid down his throat, she stuffed a lime slice and told him to bite into it to ease the strength of the shot. After one more, Castiel realized that he couldn’t stop laughing. And he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks, teasing to bring him back to sobriety to face all the thoughts he knew he was running away from. He had never been good at concealing the way that he felt.

It seemed that Charlie noticed this change in expression. She picked up the bottle and poured their drinks in it again. Castiel prepared himself for the masochistic rush of the shot but was stopped by Charlie before he could drink.

“Let us play a game to get to know each other,” a devious smirk spread over her face but at the sight of Castiel’s fear added, “No! Bro! Not anything sexual!” She chuckled at the relief wash over his face. “The game called Never Have I Ever and this is how you play.”

After the explanation, Castiel felt a loose knot at the pit of his belly and tried to feel the drunken buzz consume him. He also felt the exhilarating rush that would come with more alcohol and ignored the thought of how he would probably end up losing the game. Charlie said that he would have to drink whenever he had done something and she would drink whenever she hadn’t done something that Castiel hadn’t.

The questions started innocently. By the time they were running out of PG questions, Castiel had only taken two shots and Charlie would giggle between words.

Feeling bold, Castiel said, “Never have I ever fallen in love,” and prepared to point and laugh when Charlie took a shot but when she looked at him and said, “Neither have I,” he looked down. She wasn’t in love with Dean? Who _wouldn’t_ be in love with Dean?

“Never have I ever kissed more than one person at the same time,” she said, and they both broke out in giggles because neither of them had done that. Once he sobered up, Castiel looked at her in the eye and bravely stated: “Never have I ever kissed someone.”

And at that, the smile on Charlie’s face faded and her eyes widened to the size of dollar coins. She looked at Cas with the face of someone who had just witnessed the birth of a unicorn.

“Never ever ever ever ever in your whole life? Never ever dude?” Her tone wasn’t of pity or mockery. She was curious at being next to the person who might as well be the next Pope with the perfect innocence radiating from him. When he nodded shyly and took another shot on his own accord without licking the salt or taking some lime. His throat was oblivious to the scratching of the shot because Charlie had started stammering, “This is perfect! We can get you hooked! Up! With someone! From the bar!”

He wasn’t too enthusiastic about what “hooking up” sounded like but humored her, knowing that she probably wouldn’t remember any of this. She tried to stand up from the couch and her foot caught on a pillow, so within a second she was face first on the floor and Castiel gripped his belly laughing. She crawled onto all fours and murmured between bouts of laughter that she was way too fucked up to keep playing. Castiel leaned his head back against the couch and let the nauseous feeling in his belly wave over his belly and before he knew it, he had pulled off his shoes and put his face under the pillow Charlie gave him. He chuckled himself to sleep.

 

 

His hands trembled as he pulled the keys from the ignition. Out of superstition, he had asked Charlie not to go with him to the first fight of the semester. He had started fighting alone and winning alone, and he never let anyone see his first fight. He had won, of course and the rolled up wad of cash was thick in his pocket. His old buddy Benny had backed him up this fight,  just like they used to in Colorado. Hissing when he accidently brushed his hands on his jacket zipper, he managed to drop the keys on the floor and through the darkness that poured over the yellow house, figured he wouldn’t be able to find the one that opened his loft so he went for the largest one, the one unlocking the front of the house he shared with Charlie.

Once inside, he could see the outline of someone on the couch, a pillow over his face, and snickered at the bottle of tequila on the table. Turning on the light on the kitchen to be able to find his keys to his studio among the group of keys on his key chain, he found his eyes sliding over to the person on the couch. He stopped fumbling with his keys and stepped closer, spotting the t-shirt that had probably ridden up in the stranger’s sleep, and the naturally olive-toned skin wrapping around impossibly sculpted hipbones. From the angle at which he was standing, Dean could see the trail of dark hair that followed from the man’s navel and lower, leading to a bulge Dean gaped at. _Who the hell was this guy and why hadn’t Charlie introduced him?_

He walked closer to the couch, now perfectly aware of the man’s slow breathing as he slept, of the curve of his belly and thighs under his clothes, and of the sturdy, angular hands that clutched at the pillow he recognized as his own. The guy wasn’t suffocating, Dean could see the way his breath moved his shirt a few millimeters over his belly, teasing to come down and cover the skin that Dean was starting that. He forgot all about his aching knuckles, he forgot the adrenaline, and the thick wad of bills that weighed down his pocket. Instead, he focused on the way the skin clung over the man’s hipbone, and he wished he could cling desperately at the skin over it with his mouth. Catching his breath, he eased closer to the man, reaching a hand out to try to touch the lightly tanned skin. Dean thought the skin looked painted over with a light brush of caramel and honey, and found himself licking his lips at the thought.

Two inches away from the olive skin, his eyes focused on the blood that seeped from his knuckles, and the throbbing pain that he had on his hand. Knowing it would be stupid to touch this stranger, and to ignore the pain he felt in his hand, Dean stepped away carefully, finding his key in the middle of all the others and walked away from those sultry hipbones wondering whether god himself had crafted them and if angels had painted the guy’s skin.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whatcha think?


	4. Sickness and State-Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is sick. Dean is hurt. Charlie is pissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awful with summaries, pardon me.  
> Please leave comments!
> 
> PS: This chapter has been edited since it was first posted.

4

 

            August turned to September and the breeze that accompanied Castiel on his way back to his apartment from school became cold enough to land him in bed sick for a whole week. His new best friend, Charlie, brought him up to date with his school schedule and homework.

After the night that they played the drinking game, Charlie had been trying to get Castiel to join her at the bar. Being in bed for a week learning about Charlie’s life and glimpses of what Dean was like, Castiel was able to accept that he was once again attracted to someone. And that his someone was a man. It had taken him hours of journaling and praying and meditating and weighing out the pros and cons of these curiosities and whether he should act on them or not.

 But the problem with Charlie was that if he remembered the occurrences of the night even in his drunken state, then so would Charlie. So, he tried to avoid all topic and conversation of the bar, knowing that there he would have to meet Dean—whom Charlie said was very friendly to her friends. He hadn’t been in there since the first time he went, trying at all costs to avoid being anywhere near Dean for respect for Charlie, and was hoping not having to do so either. He was glad he had gotten sick mainly because it helped him a lot that Charlie had taken to educating him about the geek world in his house rather than hers and he was so happy that she wasn’t one of those girlfriends that talked about her boyfriend all the time. _Maybe_ , he thought, _that’s why Dean likes her so much._ _Or maybe_ , he hoped, _they had broken up!_ He hated himself for hoping that.

But on the second week of September, she came over his house, balancing a big pot over her head as she stepped through the door. Castiel’s face was still flushed red, raw, and ashy from all the tissue-blowing and dying fever, and he went into a sneezing fit before being able to ask her what it was. She deposited the pot right on the stove, turned it on, and fetched a stirring spoon from one of the kitchen drawers.

“This,” she said as she begun stirring, “is Dean’s present to you. He says he knows that you haven’t met yet but also the usual shit of ‘any friend of yours is a friend of mine’ and he whipped this up for you this morning before going to work. It’s his supercalifragilisticexpialidocious awesometastic soup, it’s a cure-all, kill-all—germs that is—Campbell-Winchester’s specially made with mucho amor and it’s all for you. Guaranteed to suck the sickness out of you for the next ten years.” She poured him a whole plateful and brought it to him on the sofa.

“Super…what?” he sneezed. But as he shook the sneeze out of his system he realized what she had said. Dean had made him soup.

Dean made this? Dean made a soup for him. Dean knew he existed. And he was so sweet because he made this soup! His entire body warmed at the thought of Dean standing in the kitchen, making soup for him.

“Um… Charlie?”

Charlie picked up a movie from her bag and looked at Cas. “Yeah?”

Castiel still hadn’t touched the soup but he wanted to know, “Why did Dean make this?”

She rolled his eyes, “we’re not trying to poison you dumbass. I told him you were too sick to go to school and he asked me about you and I told him how we met and that you were the third coolest person in this town after Dean and I, of course, and he said that he was going to make you soup so that you two can meet properly next time he’s free.”

Castiel felt the warmth return. He felt happy. So happy that he gulped the soup and burned his tongue. But he didn’t mind, even as Charlie howled with laughter, he couldn’t stop thinking that this soup was made just by Dean, for him, and that Dean wanted to meet him! **Dean the beautiful, muscular bartender wanted to meet him.**

With Charlie next to him, still giggling every few minutes while murmuring, “fresh off the stove and he puts the whole thing in his mouth,” they watched a movie about teenage witches bonding with the son of the Devil. When the end credits rolled on screen, Charlie nudged him about an upcoming party.

“Yeah, well I can’t go because I’m sick,” he pleaded with Charlie. Party? He’d never even been to one! What would he wear? What if he saw Dean there and had to stay the entire time watching Dean and Charlie kissed like two bunnies in heat? He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t want to.

“Listen here bucko, if I have to bring the party to this small apartment for you, I will. You haven’t left your house in a whole week and while that’s perfectly acceptable sometimes, you can’t keep doing that when you’re new, hot, and single and I want to see someone lovin’ on you!” she had pulled a beer from the fridge and took a swig, “besides, it’s a free for all kind of party at the bar so it’s not even in a house and you can leave whenever you want to leave and since you know the bartender you’ll be getting free drinks.”

He tilted his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows, “a free for all?”

“Oh my god,” her face froze in thought and shock, “I have never even asked you, have I? I’m an awful human being!” Looking at Castiel’s confusion, she said, “it’s like a liberating experience for those of our lifestyles, you know? Like—“

Her phone rang loudly, causing both her and Cas to jump, Castiel spilling the hot soup on his lap. He was about to exclaim at the burning sensation but saw Charlie’s face look worried, she had gotten up to grab her keys and her bag from the table.

“Dean? Dean, listen to me! Stay wherever you are. Don’t you dare move,” and waved at Castiel. “Cas! I’ll text you!” she shouted before closing the door and leaving Castiel to clean up after their mess. What the hell is going on? What had happened to Dean?

His heart thundered in his chest as he sat on his couch with the soup drying on his lap. He felt so riled up and impotent. Something bad had obviously happened to Dean.

All thoughts about “lifestyles” left his head that night as he fret for what had happened to Dean. He changed into his pajamas and looked up “free for all” parties but found nothing. What was the name of the bar he met Charlie at? He didn’t even know that because he had been to afraid to check when he went in and too tipsy to care when he left. A knot of anxiety and worry tied itself in his belly and it wasn’t until he took his nighttime flu medicine that he was able to drowse into sleep.

But as he was closing his eyes to fall asleep, his computer buzzed as a messaged was received. He got out of bed, grunting, and read Charlie’s message.

“Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday. And the day after that is Saturday. But you only have one day to think of your decision before I get Dean and his brother to go to the apartment and kick your ass into something presentable and drag you to the party. No isn’t an option for a cutie like you and a party like this. C u tmm!” she signed and went back to sitting outside of Dean’s hospital room. It was 4:30 in the morning and she hadn’t let go of Dean’s hand.

 

\-------

 

Sam Winchester was a large man, sported two beefy arms, and a shoulder-length mane that Charlie had once braided for him. Now, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat as he pressed down on the gas pedal of the motorcycle that his uncle Bobby had lent him. When Charlie called him at 2:30 in the morning, he had shoved all his belongings into his duffel bag and climbed on the bike that was parked outside of the motel. The road-trip from California to Kansas was supposed to take two or three days, it was why he had taken it. His Thursday and Friday classes were cancelled and he wanted to see Dean before he started the competition fights. The first was was due to be the following week with a certain Barty “Grouch” Junior, whom Dean had never fought before. He was willing to sacrifice his Monday class for Dean also, knowing that the fights that his brother did were for him, because the income was so much better than working at a crappy deli. He knew that his father had raised Dean to be a soldier and fighter, to only take commands and to be stoic. And once his father finally died, Sam thought that Dean would be able to accept that he was able to have a normal life, that Sam could fend for himself even if they didn’t live in the same state but Dean would never let that past go. He sent half of his earnings to Sam religiously every week or fight, and still didn’t think that it was enough. Sam just wanted his brother to quit the street fights. Kickboxing was something altogether different. Kickboxing was something that Dean could train for and fight professionally but the street fights worried him so much that over the summer, he had bet his brother—through a classic Winchester vs. Winchester poker game—that on Sam’s victory, Dean would have to stop fighting in the streets and focus on his professional kickboxing. And if his brother was anything it was a man of his word, so the fact that he was now driving a motorcycle across a state line to get to where his brother was in a Kansas hospital drove him to go to speeds that were deadly. When she called him, Charlie had been crying. In the five years that they knew Charlie, he had never seen her cry and earlier that night she had told him through sobs that Dean had been hurt, badly beaten unconscious and that the doctors had him under stabilization in the ICU. At the thought of this, Samuel Winchester zoomed past the spot where his brother had been parked only a few hours before, bleeding and falling unconscious while calling Charlie.

Knowing how faithful Dean was to his word, Charlie had the dooming sensation of an ambush as she maneuvered her yellow bike to the Kansas-Colorado state line. When she found Dean, he was inside the Impala. Quickly and shaking, she found the spare door key to the car and grabbed at Dean. After feeling his pulse had a steady but low beat to it, she mounted her yellow bike on top of Dean’s Baby and steered it towards Kansas. She sat Dean up as best as she could on the passenger’s seat and strapped his seatbelt on.

Charlie was surprised to see what he had done this to his hands. By the looks of it, he had gotten into one last street fight. The knuckles were split wide open and blood caked his fingers to the tip. She knew from having seen him fight bare-knuckled before that the bruises on his hands would be a bitch for at least two weeks. She tried to drive slowly but the way his breathing had slowed made her stomp on the accelerator and not let go or stop for anything.

She googled on her phone for the closest hospital and made sure she wore her seatbelt before taking off. Once there, she screeched the car to a halt and ran inside, screaming at a nurse to help her with her friend, who had been assaulted and had fallen unconscious. Knowing that assault would be the easiest thing to show for, she had prepped Dean’s things to give to the doctors, who wheeled him into the hospital and informed her that he was going to be stabilized.

Knowing that Dean would survive whatever the hell it was that had happened to him to render him unconscious, she pursed her lips at having to be the news bearer to Bobby and Sam, who would take turns kicking him unconscious once again. He had promised not to fight in the streets anymore. Those were dangerous, and not to mention illegal, and since Sam had left the state, Dean had no companion to watch his back in fights. This was the worst-case scenario, she knew, because it looked like Dean had taken a large fight with probably a good sum of money into it and had gotten fucked over it.

She imagined Bobby grabbing the bottle of whiskey he kept in his office and gulping a third of it down, murmuring “that damned idjit” before crashing into the hospital, demanding to see his goddamn nephew, and Sam galloping his way all the way from California just to give Dean a bitchface and a Get Well pie. Nevertheless, this seemed strange to her, because Dean had promised Sammy to quit. He had never broken one of Sammy’s promises. And he had never in his life been beaten like this. Something had to have happened. So before talking to Dean, she dialed Sam’s number and told him where she was.

By eight in the morning on the following day, Sam Winchester had zipped into the hospital looking for his brother and walking awkwardly. Only five hours before had he called Bobby to tell him Dean was in the hospital and that he was going to need the fastest bike he had. Immediately, Bobby had called a pal in the town nearby, a pal who stopped by the motel Sam stayed within the hour of the call. At receiving the bike, Sam climbed and rode halfway through Colorado and into Kansas at record-breaking speed.

 

Dean woke at midday. He woke to find, on his right, Charlie sleeping with her hands gripping his, Sam drooling into his own shirt on another chair to his left, and Bobby looking right down at him from the foot of the hospital bed.

“What the…” he tried to get up, eyeing Bobby and trying to pry Charlie’s hand off him.

“Sit still, ya idjit!” Bobby whispered. But it made no difference; Charlie and Sam had already woken, Charlie gasping at seeing Dean’s bright green eyes looking at her, and Sam cleaning up his drool from his face.

Dean ceased his efforts of getting up, and at once felt dizzy as if he was hung-over; he looked at his three family members. “Why am I here?” he asked, but his throat felt so sore and dry that his question sounded more like a raspy croak. He looked at Charlie, knowing she should be the one with the explanation for it. The last thing he remembered was stepping out of the club in Colorado and then it was a blank until the moment he woke up again.

“Dean… I was hoping you could answer that question for me. You called me last night a bit after midnight, and you asked me to pick you up near the Colorado-Kansas line and said you were dying,” she looked at Sam and Bobby, knowing she hadn’t yet told them that part. “I picked you up and drove the Impala here. You were in ICU all night and then at about eight in the morning, they brought you here and Bobby and I have been in this room since then. I don’t know when Sam got here because I was sleeping.”

But Dean didn’t seem to have taken any of that in. He closed his eyes somberly before looking straight at Charlie in disbelief. “You drove Baby!?!” his voice was a loud, croaky whisper. “I swear on everything Charles if you hurt a hair on my baby I will kill you!”

Her response was quieted by Sam’s snort. “Dude, you can’t even move so shut up. She practically saved your life. I talked to the doctors. Someone tried to chloroform you and then beat you. But by the looks of your knuckles, you beat them pretty well back. The effects of the chloroform started to work on you but by that time it looks like you had already called Charlie to pick you up,” he gave Dean one of his signature sad-puppy faces, “the doctors said that you were attacked by more than three people and that their intention probably wasn’t to kill you but to seriously injure you. Which they almost did. How you are conscious now is a big question.”

Chloroform? Calls? A fight? Before thinking further than the fight, Dean remembers the club he was in, Snuff, and then he remembers making plans to meet a guy somewhere—probably his house—when a guy his height with sandy hair and a big forehead pressed close to him. Then he remembers the handkerchief being pressed to his face and fists making contact with his skin and his fists making contact with jaws and abdomen, his legs twisting and pushing at his attackers, fending for his life no matter how dizzy he felt. He remembered the sky-blue eyes right before he was struck, and the experienced punches hitting his face and body. His face-hardened at the thought.

“Charles,” he sighed dramatically but stopped when he opened his eyes and saw the worry and pity in hers, he closed his eyes to avoid her stare and then opened them, batting his eyelashes, “tell me the truth, am I hideous now?” he winked at her when she stomped on the ground.

“You do understand that last night you could have been on your deathbed you fuckin’ idiot?” She looked at Sam and Bobby but they signaled for her to go on. “You’re making jokes about your appearance but Sam drove across a whole damn state in record and law-breaking speeds just to see you and not to mention that I’ve been goddamn worried sick about you! How could you even break a promise to Sam like that?” she jabbed a finger at his chest but regretted it the moment he hissed in pain. “Sorry,” she muttered before storming out of the room, the echoes of her storm leaving unsteady waves for Sam and Bobby to ride as they looked at Dean.

Before he could open his mouth to apologize to his brother and uncle, Dean’s doctor walked into the room. They stood against the wall as the doctor prescribed Dean some minor painkillers and ice three times a day on his biggest bruises. He was discharged within the hour and sent home to be well-taken care of. Nothing, though, was able to save him from the earful he got him Bobby the trainer as they drove back home. He wished Bobby the trainer would shut up and be Bobby the uncle for a minute as he tried to remember where the hell he had seen that cold and mean stare of the man he remembered from last night. Drawing up a blank, he settled in his bed without a painkiller and without a drink. Bobby the damned bastard was punishing him for going off alone without his brother, as if Dean would guess he would be ambushed by some dickhead with a square forehead and blue eyes.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, pretty please?
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Of Penance and Hell Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel meets Sammy "Moose" Winchester, and agrees to join Charlie in Inferno, the bar where she bartends, for a night of "fun"--or whatever Charlie means by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited since the first time it was posted.

5

            Castiel woke up on Saturday in a panic. A mixture of anxiety and worry had made him take a sleeping pill late on Friday night, and he had slept well into the sunny September afternoon. His computer was making a loud alarm sound, trying to wake him for the sixteenth time that day, while the sun forced through his thick curtains and pressed on the tops of his eyelids.

Dean’s soup had worked magically for him, and on Friday he had woken with clear sinuses, no headache and barely any pain or soreness in his throat. However, after receiving Charlie’s message briefing him on what happened with Dean, he had been unable to sleep comfortably, if at all. The thought of a hospitalized Dean was hard for Castiel, more so because he had never actually seen his face, just the contours of his jaw and the way the muscles moved underneath his tight shirts. He wondered, half the time he was awake, the why he felt so ridiculously attracted to someone he never met before.

As his alarm rang through the apartment, Castiel’s front door shook as someone knocked. He groaned and jumped towards the door, trying to fit his leg into its corresponding pant leg. Glancing by the kitchen analog clock, he groaned to see that it was four o’clock; which meant that there was a seventy-five percent chance that the person outside of that door was Charlie.

Behind the door were Charlie and a ridiculously large man. The man’s height and width were much like the doorframe’s and he almost had to duck to fit into the apartment. He wore a dark purple flannel and a shoulder-length mane that shone majestically around his diamond-shaped face. He stretched out his hand, “Hi, I’m Sam.”

Castiel put both his hands on his face after shaking with Sam. Through his fingers, he looked at Charlie’s disappointed face. “Hello, bitchacho!” She pulled Sam onto the couch and walked to the fridge to get two beers.         

“We’re here super early because Dean is being his usual asshole self and we can’t be in the house with him anymore,” she took a sip of beer and opened her eyes wide. “Sorry, man, I suck at intros. This here is Sammy, he’s Dean’s baby moose.”

“His brother, actually,” Sam smiled, looking uncomfortably erect as he sat on the couch. Castiel moved through the kitchen, trying to snap himself out of his stupor, while making coffee. “Charlie has told me a lot about you in the past twenty-four hours so I wanted to meet you myself,” he smiled and took a sip of his beer.

“It is a pleasure meeting you Sam,” he tried really hard to smile sincerely. “I don’t always look like this. I had trouble sleeping last night and apparently slept through all of my ten alarms.”

Sam looked at the poor guy in front of him. Charlie had told him the guy was good-looking, and Sam had to agree with her now. He was good-looking in the way that Dean would find him good-looking, and Sam hoped this guy was ready to meet Dean soon. In the day and a half that he’d stayed with Charlie and Dean, all Charlie raves about is she knows no subtle way of asking Castiel if he’s on her side of the rainbow because all she wants is to set him up with Dean. Dean, exhausted from the fight and night in the hospital, had let her go on with her details. She had practically planned their first date. And given them a “cute” celebrity nickname, Destiel, and it was her utmost wish that Dean get himself cleaned up for the sole purpose of introducing him to Castiel, who was supposed to be his long-lost soulmate.

But Dean had other plans for his romantic life, being that he had recently started talking to a certain Lisa Braeden who just so happened to teach yoga part-time at a dance studio where she also part-time taught ballet. Thinking about that dancer’s/yoga flexibility that she had sent Dean into a daydream.

Seeing Castiel now confirmed Charlie’s obsession for Sam, who didn’t know about Lisa Braeden or her first date with his brother. He thought Castiel would look nice claiming the Impala’s shotgun. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad an idea if they cleaned Dean up and sent him out to Inferno’s first party of the year. Starting to see someone after the whole Benny incident would be good for Dean, or so Sam thought.

He had bartended at Inferno all summer, and the bar was a safe place for people of all orientations—not that he was into that stuff. He went home every semester to the arms of his beautiful girlfriend, Jessica Moore, who loved him unconditionally and who made pies for Dean every time he won a fight.

After all, he had refused Dean’s money for two months now, knowing that he could take care of himself working at the college bar and hoping that Dean could finally start taking care of himself. He was tired of seeing his brother rip himself into two to make ends meet. He didn’t have to do that anymore.

“I’m… uh… going to head to the shower now,” Castiel announced after the awkward silence that followed his introduction to Sam, “if you need anything let me know, but I should be out of the shower in a half hour or less.”

Charlie smiled at him and waved him away, he knew he could take longer and Charlie still wouldn’t care, because they were there to hang out and to drag him out to some party at a bar he’d been to only once before.

 

Castiel walked into the shower and let the water run hot while he undressed. He wondered if Dean would be at the bar tonight even though the doctor had told him to rest. He made a mental note to ask Charlie and Sam this when he came out. Careful not to look at his body as he stepped into the shower, he let the heat and steam engulf him.

 

Thinking about Dean brought him back to the last time he had been fascinated by someone. It reminded him of the itch and surge of desire on his lips so long ago when he had been only inches away from Inias’ face in the garage. They had been so close; they wanted to touch lips, afraid of being caught, afraid of sinning so sweetly. Their index fingers wrapped around each other, holding each other’s gaze to maintain the connection, to keep reality out and away from that humid and dark garage. Their lips had been less than an inch away from each other’s, the empty space begging to be filled… when all of a sudden, Lucian’s hands were gripping Castiel’s collar, his fists connecting with Castiel’s face.

Inias has been lost from Castiel’s mind in the moments that followed and it wasn’t until his brothers began the “purification” that he prayed to God for Inias’ safety. They hadn’t been in love, they had barely known each other and all they yearned for was exploration outside of their Bible Youth Group. The saccharine moments before Lucian’s entry were the ones that Castiel thought of before praying; it was when he had felt the closest to God. The tingling at his navel, the anticipation on his skin, and the happiness that seemed to want to spill out of him, push through Castiel’s body and onto Inias’, sharing his happiness with another body.

Castiel had been sixteen. Three years later and he thought he would never rid himself of the chastising reminder. He desired again, after three years of isolation and penance, and the thought letting himself finally be happy gave him an unfamiliar bout of courage. He would no longer let himself punish himself. He was no longer under their control.

Michel’s chanting still haunted him on moonless nights, the Holy Water gurgling at the back of his throat as he choked, Lucian’s prayers threatening to clean him, Michel’s knuckles connecting with his bones. The long leather rosary slapping into the skin on his shoulderblades, dragging painfully down in retreat only to be whipped back onto his spine and all the muscles that connected. Looking at himself in the mirror would remind him of those three awful days—for his brothers wanted him to suffer and die for his own sins as Jesus Christ had done, and to arise a good man from his sin—and the days that followed. Large welts still darkened his taut skin, the memory of a crucifix pressed into his shoulder blade, the striking pain that dug into his bones for weeks afterward. He remembered the fasting that followed much after that. And as he dried himself, he caught unwanted glimpses of his scarred body in the mirror. He made up his mind quickly that those scars would serve as a reminder of his fight to be happy.

Long, curved lines traced his back, parallel to his spinal chord, reminding him of his sins and how they were punished. He was never going to be free. He was never going to be loved.

His salvation that week had been Gabriel, who burst into the house knocking over Lucian and Michel as they got in his way. Pushing into Castiel’s sullen room, he knelt by his side to examine the wounds for signs of infection. Anael had escaped overnight and dialed for Gabriel. Michel and Luc had been keeping Castiel and Anael in the house, forbidding them to go out but somehow Anael was able to. She saved Castiel’s life.

Gabriel came to take them both away, threatening to sue on one of the other while Anael helped Castiel walk out of the house. As she passed by Lucian, he grabbed her, and Anna swung her fist so hard into Lucian’s mouth that his lip was an open wound for days after. But Michel was the one who grabbed at Gabriel, making it clear that the boy was to return to them in less than a week before they started playing the part of the concerned brothers, the leaders of town whose siblings had been drawn into sin by their other brother Gabriel.

But despite Gabriel’s protests and encouragement to stay with him and live a different life, Castiel took a bus to Angels Landing, Utah, after his back healed and lived the next three years of his life as a home-schooled recluse. Lucian and Michel praised him every day for his devotion and purity. He knew in his heart he hadn’t stayed for them. He went back to his childhood home to repent his lies to himself and repent his hatred. For three years he made his penance.

 

 

By the time he was back in the living room with his friends, Castiel saw that Sam was more relaxed and laughed at something Charlie was showing him on her tablet. He moved to pour himself more coffee, feeling more awake from his reminiscing in the shower. Now he used memories of that time to become strong, to remind himself to be happy every day and fight against his brothers. They reminded him that he had done penance for his sins and yet somehow sometimes felt like it was God who yet hadn’t forgiven him. He shook the thought away and cleared his throat.

“How is Dean doing?” his voice, apparently still lost from his silent sobbing in the shower, came out soft and much more hushed than planned.

“He’s fine, much better really, he’s gotten beat up worse before so he should be at the bar tonight,” responded Charlie with a happy tone in her voice. Castiel had to remind himself not to look too interested in Dean’s attendance to the party, seeing that he would probably be wrapped around his girlfriend’s arm. He decided that he would let Charlie pick out his outfit and see if he could make more friends. Three years of praying and penance had given him time to discover the beauty of life, the beauty of love, and his desire for both.

As he finished his cup of coffee and sandwich, Charlie closed her tablet and looked at Sam, a devious twinkle in her eyes. Sam smiled at Cas.

“So, Cassie, the party.”

Cas smiled and nodded, he tried swallowing the remainder of his sandwich with a dry mouth and choked. Through coughs he replied, “I have… no objection… to this party now… that I am feeling myself again…” Sam handed him a freshly poured cup of coffee to drink out of, “thank you so much Sam.”

“Good! That’s so awesome!” Charlie jumped up and ran to her bag, pulling out a familiar bottle. “Now Cas, you are going to see how the Winchesters pregame. Especially this Winchester, fresh out of his sophomore year in a super duper serious Pre-Law whatchamacallit, partied in his super expensive school,” and Sam actually blushed. He had three shot glasses in front of him. “Time for a drinking game Cassie!”

 

 

By the time that party time came, Castiel giggled at everything Sam said, and Charlie was trying to get him to drink a water bottle. “C’mon, Castiel! I said get tipsy, not white-girl wasted! You have to be awake so you can meet the love of your life!”

Castiel swayed on the sidewalk. Sam was walking ahead of them, having volunteered to take Charlie’s place as bartender at Inferno. Castiel burst into another fit of giggles, that made Charlie do the same, and they both sat in an empty parking space behind Shurley’s Liquor Store.

“I already did!” Castiel slurred. The realization of what he said brought a shiver through his body. He grabbed the water bottle from Charlie’s hand and promised himself he wasn’t going to drink anymore that night, he could see out of the corner of his eye that her eyes diverted to the end of the parking lot, where a couple was making out excessively. Charlie giggled and got up. He motioned for her to go on and she did, realizing he needed time to remember how to walk, and walked to meet up with Sam.

Castiel, enthralled, saw the couple moving closer to where he was seated. The woman wore a white summer dress, her black hair tumbled down her back in loose waves as the man clad in the leather jacket pressed her into a nearby pick-up truck. They resumed kissing, this time the woman wrapping her legs around his hips and closing her eyes. They couldn’t see Castiel, but he could clearly see the woman’s beautiful legs as her dress hitched up and he stood up, forgetting he was dizzy and forgetting he needed to calm down. He heard a belt buckle and the woman moaned lightly. There was no one in the parking lot save for Castiel and the couple. Against his better judgment, he looked at the woman one last time before he gave them their privacy. Her eyes were still closed but he could see a cut on her chin, and a butterfly tattoo on her wrist. She moaned again and exclaimed, without opening her eyes, as the man holding her up rutted faster into her.

Embarrassed for them and ashamed of his voyeurism, Castiel found himself steadly walking to the bar. He saw Charlie outside the side door, holding a beer in her hand, and her phone in the other. Seeing him, she smiled and put her phone away.

“Just texted Dean, he said he might stop by later if he’s feeling up for it but Bobby is trying to force him to stay in bed at least one more day before they pick up their training again,” she took a sip of her beer and scanned Castiel’s face.

“Cas?”

He looked down, knowing his cheeks were pink with shame, and possible arousal, knowing that he was more nervous about walking into the bar and knowing that he wouldn’t like anyone in there. He interrupted Charlie’s impending question with his own, “are you and Dean together?”

His gaze never left the crack in the sidewalk, and he could see Charlie shifting in her stance. She snorted her beer through her nostrils, and as she coughed and choked, Castiel looked up at her, his cheeks burning even hotter than they had when he saw the woman in the white dress exclaim in pleasure.

“Dean?” she wiped her mouth and started laughing, “and me? Really, Cas?”

He opened and closed his mouth, not knowing what to say. Maybe it had been a stupid question?

But she let out a full laugh again and put her hand on his shoulder, “Oh god Cas, why didn’t you tell me you were so funny?” But she could see in his face the pure confusion.

“The answer is no. Hell no. Hell to the motherfucking no,” she widened her eyes. “Oh if only Sam could have been here. He woulda died laughing right on this sidewalk, I swear.

Why would you ever think that?”

Castiel shook his head, looking down again, a new layer of blush and shame crawling over the skin on his face.

“Dean is like my brother. Shit, he is my brother,” she bumped Castiel with her shoulder, “and it wouldn’t work out anyways between us.”

“But you make a very pretty couple,” Castiel said silently, glancing shyly at Charlie, trying to hide the wave of butterflies that had erupted in his abdomen, the hope and excitement that made him feel like he was vibrating.

“Cas! Ew, dude!” She pulled her jeans leg up a bit to reveal a neat tattoo that wrapped around her ankle; a rainbow. “I do NOT play for his team, bro, that’s icky!”

“You…” he looked at her face questioningly, all these weeks and he had never asked. “You… are … gay?”

Charlie chuckled and punched him lightly, “duh! Have you not seen where I work? I’m sure the gayest people in the state are here tonight!”

Castiel choked on his spit, “the what?!?”

Judging by the bewildered look on Castiel’s face, Charlie assumed two things. Either the kid was so sheltered that he had never met more than one gay person or he was so sheltered that he was a homo-hatin’ asshole. She took a step back and groaned. “Ugh! Don’t tell me you don’t like gay people, Cas.”

He stammered, “no… Charlie, I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation,” he stared at her in disbelief while he added everything together.

“Is this a gay bar?”

She smiled to see his relief. “Only the gayest bar in Lawrence, Cassie!”

He looked at her and blushed.

“I… don’t know about this, Charlie. I'm not gay... or I don't know if I am,” How was he supposed to know if he was gay? She was sure of herself. He had never end kissed anyone. He was just insanely attracted to Dean. And that was that. Dean was single and Castiel was free to wonder what his face looked like, and nothing would ever happen between them because he was not gay… at least he’d never been gay, right? Just curious.

She snorted again, “not gay my ass Cassie.”

Castiel had regained his cool, he was no longer ashamed of having seen two people making love against a pick up truck, he was no longer ashamed that he thought of Dean’s arms before he fell asleep, and much less that he wanted to be happy no matter how loud his brother’s voice screamed in his ears.

“Excuse me?” he raised his eyebrows, teasing Charlie.

“I said, not gay my ass Cas!” She put her beer bottle on the floor, from the doorway to her right came upbeat music whose volume rose as more stars shone in the navy colored sky. “I have a perfect gaydar and you are so gay, you almost outgay me, Castiel the Angel.”

“I…” he furrowed his brows together, “I don’t know Charlie.”

“Don’t know if you’re gay? That happens to the best of us, man. Listen, I am not trying to pry into your sex life but brotha you are a hot piece of ass and someone in this bar is going to grab atcha.”

He blushed at her compliment but shook his head, “no, Charlie, I’ve just,” he lowered his voice, “never even kissed anyone. I don’t know what I am. I am here to have fun tonight, please don’t take this the wrong way.”

She took a step back to lean into the wall again, “what do you mean? I’m not pushing you to do anything man, I just want to see you get all happy, dude! I’m all cool with whatever which way you wanna go.”

Sam leaned out of the door way and beckoned them in, saying something about how they were the only two losers who were outside, and Charlie’s conversation was lost in the flashing lights of the bar and the heat of the bodies that were coming in through the bar’s main entrance.

A pop song sang through the speakers as Sam lead Charlie and Castiel into the bar, whose interior was lit by purple lights moving in circular motions, and whose floor had been cleared for a large group of people pressing their bodies together and away from each other in rhythm with the music. Castiel swallowed hard as he took it all in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT ship Inias/Castiel. I just added the character as a fill in. Destiel 5evah. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. The Wet Man ..?

By twelve, Castiel had drank two more beers and been hit on twice. Once by a girl with a pretty, round face and the second time by a man with sandy hair. And he had only realized they'd hit on him after Sam gave him a light punch on the arm and asked him if he was seeing someone, because "half the people in this bar have been circling you since you got here, man" Sam told him. It wasn't that he didn't notice, he just didn't know how to react, he told Sam. But when Sam handed him a clear drink with ice and leaves in it (silly Castiel thought it was juice) and pointed to the man with the sandy hair, he threw caution to the wind and walked over to him. The bar was packed, and everyone danced around each other, with each other, and on each other. By the time he got to the sandy haired guy, the top two buttons of Castiel's button down were undone and he could feel the sweat beads roll down the back of his neck. Their eyes met, a blue eyed Castiel looking gratefully at the blue eyed stranger.

"Thank you for the drink," he tried to say but the man looked at him questioning lay and stepped into Castiel's space.

"My name is Bartholomew," he said into Castiel's ear, "Bar for short."

Castiel stepped back. He looked at Bartholomew, whose linen shirt hung loosely on his shoulders, "Castiel."

Bartholomew smiled, he didn't know what the hell the guy just said his name was and he didn't give a shit. This scruffy looking, blue eyed beauty was definitely going home with him tonight. He put a finger on Castiel's wrist and motioned for Castiel to follow him, into the dance floor. Castiel saw Charlie looking at him, giving him two thumbs up, and he feels relaxed. Time to live, he told himself, and pushed Lucian's voice out of his head.

The mojito watered down by the time that Bartholomew was able to entwine his hands in Castiel's and bring him closer. Somehow, Castiel kept managed to pull away whenever Bartholomew got too close.

But Cas pulled away and shook his head no to the next dance. He was going to go to the bathroom and see if he could lose this guy. The drink was nice, he'd have to ask Sam or Charlie what it was later, but he wasn't that interested in this guy. On his way through the crowd and into the bathroom, a small hand wrapped around his arm and pulled him into a back room. He braced himself for impact, and both his hands were drawn into fists until he saw that the small hand belonged to Charlie.

"Where were you going, hot stuff?"

"Bathroom, why? You scared me, I almost hit you," he said apologetically.

"Because that blonde was tailing you! And because you looked like you were either going to fuck him in the bathroom or smite him to pieces back here."

Castiel shrugged, "more like the latter Charles. He was all hands and I didn't feel comfortable." He realized that he still had the watered down drink in his hand. "By the way, what's this?"

Charlie took a sip out of the black straw in the cup and chuckled to herself. She couldn't help but chuckle. "The Winchester mojito bro, did Sam make it for you?" she laughed a bit more, "Why?"

"What's so funny?"

"Two things, dude," she took the cup and drank the remainder of the mojito. "One, this is like the second gayest drink in the planet, and it's definitely a fuck me mating call from that blonde guy to you, and two bro, you called me Charles."

"Okay, Charles. Maybe you've had more than me to drink. I know I don’t know much about dating men or dating in general but I do know that drinks do _not_ have sexual preferences so this mojado is not gay." He made a stern face at her to emphasize his seriousness but she choked on an ice and threw herself on the floor laughing.

“A mojado?!” she clutched at her belly and looked up at him with tears streaming down her face, “that literally means a wet man in Spanish dude, what are you even saying?”

“What’s the name of the drink?”

“Mo- _jito!”_ and with that she was laughing again.

Castiel looked at his friend on the floor. She was, as she had taught him to say, _fucked up_ and at that point he wasn’t really in the mood to stay in the party. According to Charlie, that guy had a thing for him and he wasn’t very interested in dating. So he leaned down to pick Charlie up and hoist her over his shoulder while she was still laughing, now sounding like a gasping fish, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Hey, asshat! Let go of the fucking girl and get the hell out of here!”

            He turned around to get a face full of a brunette girl with an empty bottle in her hand. Over his shoulder, Charlie had begun laughing louder and was now heaving and mumbling. He took a step back and looked at the brunette closer.

            “No—you misunderstand—sorry—Charlie shut up for a second—she’s my friend I swear!” It all came ragged, like his thoughts. Who the hell was this and how was he supposed to change the situation from what it was?

            “I’m—uh—I’m not hurting her, you know. I swear,” he put Charlie down on the ground where she looked up and let out a few puffs of laughter.

            “Heya Megstickel!”

            Megstickel rolled her eyes and looked at Castiel, then back at Charlie. “You cool?”

            Charlie pointed her index finger at Megstickel and scrambled to where Castiel had put the empty mojito cup.

            Megstickel tapped her foot and chewed her gum loudly, looking at Castiel up and down. “So you know her, huh?”

            Castiel nods.

            “You watch yourself now, asshat, I better see her here for work tomorrow without a scratch or else I’ll gut you and feed you to my dogs,” she blew a bubble with her gum, looked down at her thigh high boots, and looked back up to Castiel.

            Castiel nods again, unable to say much. He looks at Charlie and goes to pick her up again, this time assisted by the brunette.

            “What’s your name, then?”

            “I’m Castiel,” he says with Charlie’s arm wrapped around his neck.

            “Meg.”

            Meg walks across the room and pushes open a door for him. She lights a cigarette that she got from God-knows-where and pushes it closed after them when Castiel and Charlie step out. Charlie was walking sloppily and he managed to grunt a “Thanks” before Charlie threw herself on the floor and threw up. He sighed and reached to hold her hair.

            From behind him, he hears Meg laugh, “well, aren’t you the gay best friend every girl wants.”

            Unable to come up with a witty comeback, he pulls Charlie up, making sure that her face doesn’t have vomit on it, and thinks twice about hoisting her up on his shoulder again. He’d have to do with dragging her along until they got to his apartment. Three more blocks to go.

 

As he passes by the alleyway where he had seen Dean come out of the other night, he pauses. Charlie was heaving again and he didn’t know what to do in the situation. He thought that holding her hair would be the right thing to do so he sets her to sit by the curb with her head leaning down to throw up in the gutter. He looks around him while he hears Charlie groan, hoping that Sam would be around but all he sees is a shiny black car pull up a few feet away from where he is. He sends a small prayer to whoever is listening to keep them out of trouble and rubs Charlie’s back.          

            When the door to the car opens, of course he’d been too damn distracted to realize that it was _the_ car, and _the_ guy in gym shorts and a tight tank top steps out, it’s Castiel that wants to throw up. The man hadn’t noticed him, of course, and Castiel wouldn’t really expect him to, except that now he’s worried because both Sam and Charlie had told him Dean wasn’t “allowed” to go out today because he needed bedrest and here he was, walking out of his car, looking in to the alleyway, ignorant of the situation happening behind his car.

            And Castiel forgets that Charlie has leaned on his chest and started snoring. He turns his head towards the sidewalk and calls out,

            “Dean?”


	7. Sexy Eyes and Stolen Moonlight

Bobby Singer couldn’t sleep. It was 2 in the morning and he couldn’t damn well sleep. After a whole bottle of whiskey he’d felt sleepy, once upon a time, now it barely tickled him. So he did the best thing he thought he could do, he decided to confront his demons. He wasn’t no idjit. And he certainly wasn’t gonna let none of his own be idjits. So he calls Dean Winchester at 2:05 and tells him to come over to the gym, if he’s not too busy. He was gonna settle his shit once and for all.

            He’d been the one who trained with John. Shit, he’d been the one who looked for and after John when he started fighting. Only reason he fought as a kid was to make sure no one touched his almost brother. By age 15, they were mixed arts fighters and by age 19, he and John had participated in almost all of the Midwestern mixed martial arts fights. He’d taught John how to grapple and John’d taught him the easiest knock out punches. And damn him if he didn’t save his life when Azazel, the dick who tried to be their manager, tried to pull one on them. Hell, it’d been John who helped Bobby and Dean hide the body. Azazel, the son of a bitch who killed Mary and tried to get away with it and Dean, the goddamn fifteen year old idjit who’d found him and killed him.

            So what if by age twelve Dean knew how to snap a neck and break a femur? The kid had fire; he was a natural born fighter. He wan’t gon’ let no idjit like John keep Sammy from living a good life. So the kid started fighting young, and he started winning more fights than people counted for. So what if Bobby decided to train him to be better? Wan’t no crime to raise a kid that was practically an orphan, right?

            John lost himself completely in drugs and alcohol somewhere between Dean’s eleventh and twelfth birthdays and he’d leave his two young boys were either in a motel or in Bobby’s house. And when Bobby told him, one evening or the other, that he’d caught Dean with street fighting bruises and bloody knuckles, John said, “well, he had to man up someday.”

            So it wasn’t entirely a tragedy for Bobby Singer when John Winchester was found dead, penniless, and beat to pulp in an abandoned warehouse right off Route 36. By then, Sam had called him dad accidentally once or twice, and Dean was training to fight legal fights. But like his old man, Dean carried a burden on his shoulders. Unlike his old man, Dean carried a noble one, not a cowardly thirst for younger days. Dean fought for his brother’s future and damned be Bobby if he didn’t help him get to where he was today.

            Hence, when Dean Winchester, his _boy_ and most importantly, his fighter, winds up in a hospital and refuses to say the truth about what the hell is going on, Bobby lets him be. But a day later and Bobby’s tried everything he could to scratch the worrying itch and when he’s watched every Spanish soap opera re-run on the Spanish channel, he gives the idjit a call and starts pacing.

            There was no damn way in hell he was gonna let his fighter take the coward route and opt for dirty fights when he had a perfectly good, and clean, road ahead of him. Dean would be the winner of this competition, goddamnit, he knew that like he knew how to breathe.

 

\---

 

 

When he first heard his name called out, he thought it had been Baby. Immediately he shook the thought and turned around, in search for the voice. What he found did not disappoint.

            A messy haired man sat at the curb next to Baby, and on his chest was a girl… wait a minute, what the hell was Charlie doing on his fucking chest?

            “What the—who the fuck are you?”

            “I’m—“

            “Is that Charlie?” Dean forgot about the guy’s sex hair and squatted down to see her. He checked her pulse and breath, “heya Charles?” he tapped her face with his left hand, the one that hurt less, “this asshat bothering you Charles?”, and turned his face to look at the guy holding her.

            At two o’clock in the morning, the streets were lit dimly by the moon’s rays but the moment that Dean’s eyes connected with this stranger’s, he saw where all the rest of the moon’s shine had gone because this guy had the clearest and bluest eyes he’d ever seen in his life. He forgot how to speak for a second. “Soooo…. Who…” he cleared his throat— _snap the fuck out of it Winchester—“_ the fuck are you?”

            “I’m not bothering her. I’m Castiel,” the guy said. He extended out his hand as far as it could go from underneath Charlie’s arm. Dean didn’t take it; instead he grabbed Charlie and hoisted her up on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that if I were—“ the stranger began saying but then the inevitable followed. A loud splatter was heard behind Dean and then Dean felt the back of his shirt and shorts get significantly wetter and heavier.

            “Oh, son of a bitch!” He pulled Charlie off and set her on the curb again, he tried to turn and look at his back but he could already _smell_ the vomit on his clothes and tried not to gag. He pointed a finger at the pretty and perplexed looking man in front of him, “you keep fucking watching her, alright?” and stomped off into the alley to find Bobby.

            This is just fucking great. He finally gets to meet the supposedly super awesome Castiel and Charlie managed to throw up on him before Castiel says anything to him. Way to kill a first impression Charles.

 

 

 

            Bobby heard the banging in the studio door and walked down the stairs, already feeling like he was going to grow some lady parts by worrying so much. Goddamnit, the kid’s in his twenties now, why did Bobby feel like he still had to intervene in his life decisions?

            _Oh yeah, that’s because it was you who changed his damn diapers when John was too drunk to remember he had kids._

            He grumbled as he opened the door to a very pissed off looking Dean.

            “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”

            But Dean scoffed, “Listen Bobby, I just got thrown up on and I have to take Charlie home asap before she throws up on more people. So what do you need?”

            He knew he was being a dick, but hell, Charlie just threw up on him and he was either going to have to walk home or drive Baby naked with Charlie in the trunk because no one was going to throw up in his car. Whatever Bobby had called him over for, he’d have to do it quick because the smell was intoxicating and it was really pissing him off.

            Bobby wrinkles his nose when the smell finally hits him. “Phew, princess, you didn’t think about showerin’ before you came to stink up my gym?”

            “No, she’s outside with some guy with a lost puppy face,” he looks out the door but can’t see the sidewalk. “So look Bobby, what’s eatin’ at you at two a.m.? Because a guy’s gotta sleep and now a guy’s gotta shower and take a drunk best friend home before she pukes on his Baby.”

            “That guy out there’s your baby?” Hell, Bobby Singer was no blind man but he wasn’t gonna miss out the opportunity to win fifty bucks from Rufus when Dean comes out.

            Dean’s facial expression changed so dramatically, Bobby almost burst out laughing. “What? No! What? Who even says that?!” He paced back a few steps and looked at Bobby, dragging his hand over his face, “What the hell Bobby you can’t just ask a guy… you know! That! Jesus.”

            And that was it, just his reaction to the question and Bobby Singer earned himself fifty bucks.

            “No, listen, son, uh, it doesn’t matter if, uh, the guy’s your baby or your seven minues in heaven kinda thing, it don’t matter to me and it won’t matter to none that knows you,” he put a hand on Dean’s shoulder to reassure him his care and drew it back quickly, wet vomit was on his fingertips. “Aw, son of a bitch!” He brushed it on Dean’s shirt and stepped back.

            “Go take care of your baby and that drunk idjit, we’ll talk later, asshat,” he waved Dean off.

            “Just, what is it Bobby? It got somethin’ to do with the competition?”

            Bobby grunted and looked at the tough sonuvabitch in front of him. Nah, he wasn’t gonna turn out like his father, but Bobby just needed to make sure sometimes.

            “Yea, sumthin’ like that,” and he shut the lights off and went up the stairs to his apartment.

            Dean was left half in the dark and he could feel the _wet_ on his shirt and fought against punching a wall for how goddamn gross it was. Damn Charles to fuckin’ hell, alright, she owed him big time.

           

The guy with the button down shirt was still holding Charlie to his chest by the time Dean made it outside and locked all the doors. He wasn’t asleep, like Charlie was, but his eyes were narrowed and looking over the Impala.

            “Hey, Baby, you okay?” Castiel heard Dean’s voice and his head snapped in the direction. _No… there was no way in hell Dean was talking to him…_

            And damned if he was right, Dean walked over to the Impala and put a hand on the hood, “This guy wasn’t hittin’ on you or anything, hm?” He smiled and winked at Castiel and saw the guy turn his head to the left a little and furrow his brow. _The hell? This guy never hear a joke before?_

            He was still looking at him like he was trying to figure out how anyone could hit on the car when Dean cleared his throat.

            “So, uh, you alright, man?” Dean asked, unsure if he should get Charlie off this guy with the stench he had on him.

            “Yes, I’m fine. You, on the other hand, might not be so fine. Your shirt is wet and your pants caught the worst of it. You’re entirely soiled, Dean,” he grimaced as he said this, feeling sympathetic for Dean.

            “Yeah, man, I kinda noticed,” he took the Impala’s key out of his shorts and moved to unlock it, guessing he’d just have to stick Charlie’s head out of the window and drive commando back home.

            “I was going to take her to my apartment,” the statement stops Dean in his tracks. Castiel realizes he’s about to be called an asshat, again, and adds, “she can sleep on my couch, that’s what I mean. I don’t have a car to take her to your house. So I thought I could just take her to my house until tomorrow.”

            Dean continues to look at him, the anger radiating off his pores. What had Castiel done to make him so angry?

            “Dean,” he said.

            Just the way the guy said his name, it drew a shiver up his spine and made his knees wobbly. _What the fuck, Winchester, you’re not twelve, and you’ve got a bendy girl already._ But the internal whiny voice in his head said, _his voice Dean, when he says your name, isn’t that **quite** the voice?_

            And Dean shook his head lightly and cocked an eyebrow at Cas.

            “Would you like to come home with me?”

            _Back the fuck up, sexy eyes said what now?_

            Dean’s face showed his interpretation for what Castiel had said and immediately Cas regretted it. He had puckered his lips like to say something a few times and furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched up his nose while shifting his weight from foot to foot.

            They both spoke at the same time as the tension grew.

            “Uh, sure Cas—“

            “I didn’t mean—“

            And they both shut up at the same time. Castiel looked down at the drunk Charlie who was snoring on his chest. He drew a breath and looked at the guy he’d been thinking about for two weeks. He was unsure of why he wasn’t nervous. In fact, it worried him that after thinking of Dean so much, he could feel so comfortable talking to him in the middle of the night and while he _wore that shirt that clung so desperately to his muscles_.

            “Dean,” he said again, he liked saying his name, “would you like to come to my house and change out of those clothes so that you can drive back home with Charlie?” Castiel knew he wouldn’t want to get into his car with soiled clothes. The one thing Charlie kept repeating about Dean was his unconditional love for his car, and Castiel figured he wouldn’t want to drive with vomit splattered on his clothes.

            “I can lend you a change of clothes and my shower if you’d like,” he offered, maintaining eye contact with Dean’s vivid green eyes. He nearly swooned when those eyes shone and Dean nodded his head at Castiel.

            “Yeah…uh…that’d be really cool Cas, man, I would really appreciate that,” he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. This Cas guy made him nervous. No one made Dean Winchester nervous.

           

           

           

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments, tell me what you think!


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